After Buster's death, a new dog felt like a betrayal. Then I met the Beast of Bolsover...

By Roy Hattersley

One man and his dog: Roy Hattersley and his new pet Jakie

No, I didn't choose Jakie. He chose me - which was just as well.
Had he not imposed himself upon me, I might be missing the joy of a friendship that has enhanced human existence since cavemen tamed wolves.
But now, with me on one end of a lead and a dog on the other, I walk with a spring in my step again.
My previous dog, Buster, can never be replaced, but two months after he died I began to think about finding a successor.
I told myself that he - it was always going to be a he - would be a tribute to his memory.
But I also felt guilty. Thinking about another dog waiting on the landing to welcome me home seemed like a betrayal.
So I began half-heartedly to look at dog sanctuary websites. There was a mad moment when I thought of adopting Harley, who was advertised as a loving chocolate-brown half-Labrador.
He was all those things. But the other half was bull mastiff.
Harley - six months and still growing - weighed six stone. When, as a gesture of affection, he leant on me, I fell over.
I also looked at Nelson - lacking one eye, as his name implied - when a Kong dog toy rolled towards me from the next kennel.
A Kong is a lump of rubber in the shape of a deformed pear, which delights dogs by bouncing at unpredictable angles.
The Kong was delighting the kennel's occupant, Jakie - not the mongrel I was looking for, but a pure-bred English bull terrier pup.
I threw back the Kong. Jakie rolled it out again and so we began a rally of Wimbledon proportions.
I discovered he had been found wandering the streets of Bolsover in Derbyshire just before Christmas. He was, I was told, desperate for company.
In the rescue centre, surrounded by dogs but alone in his pen, the Kong was his only consolation.

   

I decided there and then that Jakie would have another friend - and that it would be me.
It was not love at first sight. That happens only once in a dog-owning lifetime. So I took Jakie home and waited for him to grow on me.
The process was accelerated by two misfortunes that turned out to be blessings.
First, Jakie was ill, not seriously but enough to stimulate the protective feeling that is close to devotion.
Then a London neighbour complained to the local freeholders' association that I had bought 'an attack dog'.
I can only guess what gave her that idea. She had seen him only once and had not mentioned her concerns to me.
I assume she judged him by his appearance - a test that few of us would pass. To most people, he looks more comic than threatening. It is part of his character.
Jakie has the huge head and snout common to his breed and a typically thin coat through which there's a glow of pink skin.
His brow is creased in permanent wrinkles as if he is worried or thinking deeply, and his big lips give the impression that he has smudged his lipstick.
On a clear day, light shines through his permanently erect ears. Perhaps his almond-shaped eyes were thought to be a sign of Oriental menace.
My neighbour's complaint came to nothing.
But for the couple of days before the estate manager recognised a breed known to the Victorians as 'the gentleman's friend', I relived all the irrational fears I had experienced when my previous dog, Buster, killed the Queen's goose in St James's Park.
Then, though nothing worse happened than a £200 fine, I was sure - out of pure neurosis - that the police would come to take away Buster.
I was ready to barricade the doors, hire the most expensive QC in the land and flee (with Buster) to Ireland.
After this new complaint, I felt the same about saving Jakie. No one would take him from me. He was mine and I was his till death us do part.
Perhaps he had arranged the complaint as a bonding exercise.
So the serious business of training began. He was, miraculously, already house-trained, but he had no idea how to deal with stairs and I doubt if he had ever been taken for a walk in his young life.
Teaching him to proceed in one consistent direction was the first lesson. He learned quickly.
Now, we cover long distances at light infantry pace each morning in the hills of the Peak District, where we spend most of our time, and London's royal parks, where we avoid birds.
After an intensive six weeks, on the word of command he will sit, go flat and stay - more often than not.
He is friendly towards sheep, which is only to be expected, since he looks like one.
I have not become the love of his life. He remains true to Kong - well, the series of Kongs with which he has been indulged.
Offer him a biscuit or a Kong and he will take Kong every time - chewing it, while it sticks out of the side of his mouth like a grotesque cigar, and pursuing it across the carpet after its frequent escapes from his teeth.
The second place in his hierarchy of esteem almost certainly belongs to the hard blue rubber balls which - were I prepared to throw them for him - he would chase round the Derbyshire garden all day.
His fielding is one-day Test match standard and his sliding stop smears his white fur with the sort of mud and grass stains that disfigure cricketers' flannels. Unfortunately, Jakie does not wash.
He dribbles his ball with the finesse of a Premier League footballer. One way and another, he's ruining the grass.
But it's a small price to pay for a close association with an all-round sports star.
Chasing balls, Jakie shows no concern for life or limb. He crashes into walls, falls down steps, bounces off apple trees and disappears into rose bushes with no thought other than retrieving and responding to the order 'Drop'.
Not bad, I tell myself, for a dog who hates going out in the rain and looks over his shoulder nervously if he hears a loud noise.
Jakie is very different from Buster. And that is important for both of us.
I loved Buster because he could lay claim to being the hardest dog in the world. I am growing to love Jakie because he could not. But the bonds of affection are unbreakable.
In the early days of doubt, when I wondered if another dog was a mistake, I told myself that at least he had found a good home - that he was lucky to have me.
Now, I think I am lucky to have him.